8. Bella

8

BELLA

I wake slowly, feeling warm and comfortable. A sense of safety envelops me as I snuggle closer to the solid warmth beside me. The rhythmic rise and fall of breathing lulls me, and I'm tempted to drift back to sleep. Except…

My eyes fly open as I realize I'm pressed against a man's body. Not just any man. Nic Nardone.

I've never shared a bed with a man before. The shock of it freezes me in place. How did this happen? I’m sure he was on the couch when I finally went to bed last night. I suppose it would make sense he’d look for a bed to sleep in over the couch, but why this bed? Did he know I was already in it?

Nothing untoward has happened. We’re both fully dressed. He’s firmly on his side of the bed, lying on his back. I, on the other hand, am the one snuggled up against his side. I should move. I know I should. But a traitorous part of me wants to stay right where I am, savoring this unexpected warmth and comfort. It feels safe, which is ridiculous considering the circumstances that brought us here.

I study him. In sleep, he looks calm, even peaceful. Maybe too peaceful. A surge of panic shoots through me. I can't tell if he's breathing. Is he still alive?

"Nic?" I poke his arm, hoping he’s not someone who flails when startled like my sister Sophia is. She once nearly gave me a black eye when I tried to wake her.

Nic doesn’t respond. I speak louder. "Nic?"

Just as I'm about to scramble off the bed in a full-blown panic, he says, “I’m not dead.”

Relief tumbles through me.

“You know how I know?” he murmurs. “Because angels aren’t allowed in hell.”

I wonder if he’s delusional. Or maybe he just called me an angel. I can’t stop the sweet feeling filling my chest at that thought.

Nic's eyes flutter open. He blinks slowly, focusing on my face hovering above his. “Are you disappointed?”

My brow furrows. “At what?”

“That I’m not dead.”

I want to slug him, but even though he’s not dead, he doesn’t look good. “No. I don’t know how to deal with a corpse, so I’d prefer you didn’t die on me.”

A small chuckle escapes him.

Feeling a little self-conscious being in bed next to him, I slip out of the bed and walk around to his side to check on him.

Now that I'm looking more closely, I can see how unwell he appears. His skin is clammy and pale, with a sheen of sweat across his brow. Dark circles shadow his eyes, which seem glassy and unfocused.

“Do you feel as bad as you look?” I ask.

“Don’t know. Do I look like the crypt keeper?”

I reach out to feel his forehead. Nic tries to brush my hand away, but the movement lacks his usual strength. "I'm fine.”

“You have a fever. I should check your wound.” I start to lift up his shirt, noting the heat radiating off his skin.

“If you want to get me naked, just ask.”

I hope that’s the fever talking. I gently pull the bandage off from over the stitchless closures. The smell hits me first, a sickly sweet odor that makes me gag. The wound itself looks angry and inflamed, the skin around it red and swollen. My limited first aid knowledge is enough to know this isn't good.

“Ut-oh,” he says.

I look up into his dark eyes, worry filling me. “What?”

“I don’t know, but the look on your face suggests something bad.”

“I think it’s infected. We need to get you to a doctor.”

He’s shaking his head before the words finish leaving my mouth. “No.”

I’m worried he’s not in his right mind to make decisions. “Without antibiotics, this infection could kill you.”

He doesn't respond, his eyes drifting closed again. I bite my lip, torn between respecting his wishes and doing what I know is necessary to save his life.

“Nic, if?—”

“No doctors.”

“You could die.”

“I’ll die if I’m exposed. I’d rather die here with an angel than by some fuck-wad assassin in a hospital.”

"Who's after us, Nic? If you tell me what's going on, maybe I can figure out a safe way to get you treatment."

But Nic just shakes his head, his lips pressed into a thin line. Even in his weakened state, he's refusing to give up any information. “You’re in over your head. We’re better off staying hidden.”

His eyes drift closed again. I watch him for a moment, torn between anger at his stubbornness and worry for his deteriorating condition.

As much as it pains me to admit, he's probably right that I’m not Mafia savvy enough to keep us safe outside this bubble of refuge we’ve found. I'll have to do my best to care for him here.

I retrieve the first aid supplies I found in the cabin and return to him. I glop on antibiotic ointment, hoping it will be enough to stave off a deadly infection. I manage to coax Nic into swallowing some fever reducers with a bit of water. He drifts off again almost immediately, his breathing still rapid and shallow. He’s lying on top of the covers, but I find a blanket in the closet and cover him with it, hoping rest will help his body fight the infection.

Exhausted and hungry, I make my way to the kitchen. The coffee maker is ancient, but functional. As it gurgles to life, I rummage through the cupboards. There’s no fresh food in the place, but I find a stash of granola bars. It's not exactly a gourmet breakfast, but it'll do.

Cradling my mug of coffee, I wander into the cabin's small living area. The quiet is almost eerie after the chaos of the past day. I want to open the curtains to let the sun in, assuming the sun is out, but Nic had been adamant about keeping everything closed up.

My gaze lands on a small bookshelf in the corner. Curious, I scan the titles, surprised to find a few classics mixed in with mystery novels and outdated travel guides. My fingers brush over a familiar spine, Sense and Sensibilit y by Jane Austen.

I pull the book from the shelf, settling into an overstuffed armchair. As I open to the first page, I can't help but laugh at the absurdity of the situation. Here I am, hiding from assassins in a cabin with an injured Mafia underboss, reading a witty romance novel about 19th-century English society.

I glance up from my book, realizing several hours have passed. Worry gnaws at me as I remember Nic's condition. I should check on him, but I’m afraid of what I might find. I rise from the chair and head back to the room.

I’m relieved to see his chest rise and fall. I’m about to leave him when he mumbles something incoherent, his brow furrowed in discomfort.

I go to him, setting my book on the side table and then pressing my hand to his forehead, frowning at the heat still radiating from his skin. "You're still burning up. Here, let me get you some water."

After coaxing him to drink, he seems a bit more with it. “What are you doing?”

“I’m taking care of you.”

“I mean when you’re not doing that.”

I hold up the book I’d set on the side table. “Reading.”

“Is it good?”

I shrug. “I like it.” It doesn’t strike me as something a fierce Mafia enforcer would enjoy.

“Read it to me.”

I arch a brow. “You want me to read to you?”

He nods.

I blow out a breath. “Alright.” I move to the other side of the bed, sitting on it with my back against the headboard.

As I delve into the world of the Dashwood sisters, I imagine Nic will drift back to sleep, but instead, he seems to grow more alert, even chuckling at some parts.

"Willoughby's a fucking douchebag.”

“Hard to argue that.” Although, unlike, say, Wickham in Pride and Prejudice , I think Willoughby really loved Marianne, but he chose money and status over love.

“Edward isn’t any better. Fucking pussy.” His unexpected engagement with the story sparks my curiosity.

"What do you think about Colonel Brandon?"

“Boring and a putz for pining after a silly woman, but at least he’s not an asshole.”

“Do you think he’s better for Marianne? After all, he’s so much older than her.”

Nic studies me for a moment. “How old are they?”

“Marianne is around seventeen or so. He’s thirty-six.”

He frowns. “Seventeen? She’s not of age?—”

“Back then, people married younger.”

He studies me. “My father is older than that and you’re marrying him.” He shakes his head. “Fucking crime.”

I bite my lip, feeling suddenly defensive. "That's… that's different. My situation with Don Nardone isn't like a novel."

Nic's eyes narrow, his gaze piercing despite his weakened state. "Isn't it? A young woman marrying a much older man for security and status? Sounds familiar to me."

Now I’m angry. There’s something about his tone that is accusatory. Like he thinks I’m like Willoughby. “I see that even in your feverish state, you can be as much of an asshole as before.”

“Am I wrong? You’ve been raised in the lap of luxury and will marry into even more wealth.”

Why is he turning on me like this? Not long ago, he was calling me an angel.

“You don’t know shit, Nic Nardone.” I surprise myself by cursing as it’s not something I normally do. It speaks to how offended I am by him. He, of all people, should know that my situation isn’t of my choosing. “You think I’m a spoiled Mafia princess?”

He nods.

“You think I want to marry a man old enough to be my grandfather? You think I’ve chosen this for my life?” I lean closer to him. “I haven’t chosen anything in my life. And you’re an asshole because you, of all people, should know that women raised in the Mafia have no rights. It’s as stifling and restrictive as in Jane Austen’s time. Dick.”

Nic’s eyes widen, and he opens his mouth to respond, but I cut him off. “Save it. I’m not interested in anything you have to say.” I storm out of the room, slamming the door behind me.

As my anger simmers, a dangerous thought creeps into my mind. Maybe I should just leave. I could take the car and find a safe place to call Ava. She’d know what to do. Or at least Matteo would.

I think of Ava's warnings, of the rumors about Don Nardone's cruelty. Maybe there's more truth to them than I wanted to believe. Ava was able to find a way out of three arranged marriages. She told me Matteo had arranged a new identity for her when she thought she’d escape from our father and her marriage to Gino Nardone. Maybe she and Matteo could help me escape too.

But even as the thought of leaving Nic forms, guilt washes over me. How can I abandon him when he's hurt and vulnerable? He may be infuriating, but he's also the only person standing between me and whoever wants us dead.